


The Vanishing Nightdresses

by TheScribbler_CMB



Category: North and South (UK TV), North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell, North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell | UK TV
Genre: F/M, Family, Flirting, Fun, Hotel Sex, Love, Loving Marriage, Marriage, Playful Sex, Romance, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:48:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28367919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheScribbler_CMB/pseuds/TheScribbler_CMB
Summary: Borrowed from my series, The Thornton Tales, this super smutty short story follows John and Margaret as they take a few days away together at a Manchester hotel. With no children or commitments, what could a young married couple possibly do to entertain themselves? Whilst unpacking, Margaret notices that she is missing something and after interrogating her mischievous husband, they soon go to check out the hotel bed.
Relationships: Margaret Hale & John Thornton, Margaret Hale/John Thornton
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	1. The Vanishing Nightdresses: Part 1 of 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please note, this story contains mature-explicit smut, mainly in chapter 2.

_THE VANISHING NIGHTDRESSES_

_PART 1 OF 2_

Margaret stood by the window of her hotel suite and gawked at the busy thoroughfare below, her mind a tizzy with all the diversions that grappled for her interest. She was mesmerised by the jostling toing and froing of people, horses, wagons, and carriages, all going about their endless business. It was as if this city never slowed down, never stopped, never slept, its enterprise a beating heart that pumped vivacious blood through the veins of Britannia and her expanding empire.

Margaret had never been to Manchester before, in fact, Milton was the most industrious town she had ever known. It had taken the southern lass a long time to get used to being part of this intrepid new England, this phenomenon that was a manufacturing metropolis. The clamour of life in a trade town had challenged her at first, for it had been an assault on the senses, with all its excessive noise, pollution, grime, and the constant stench of smoke. Milton was a relentless hullabaloo, one that was a surge of innovativeness, a place where the working men and women were labouring to create a new nation. It was, in definition, a revolution in the making.

For Margaret, she had been so used to the elegance and ease of London life, as well as the quiet tranquillity and simplicity of Helstone, that moving to an urban outpost in the far-flung north had felt as foreign to her as Mars. Living in Milton had been an education in terms of both her understanding of society as a whole, but also, much more intimately, it had evoked an evolution in herself. However, for all its efforts, her dear Milton was nothing compared to the dynamic creature that now rumbled before her, with its factory buildings and billowing chimneys dominating the horizon for miles around, seeming to stretch to the edges of the earth itself. Here, everything was brasher, everything was bigger, everything was brisker, indeed, everything was breathtakingly brave in its pursuit of modernity.

As Margaret watched the swarm of men and women scurry below like well-groomed mice, she was glad that John had persuaded her to come. They had been married for twenty-two months and their daughter, Maria, the apple of their eye, was now one year old. Margaret had never been away from her baby girl, and the new mother had only been absent from Milton once, taking her cherub to London to meet her cousins.

John had hardly left town either, for he was reluctant to forsake his wife and daughter for a moment longer than absolutely necessary. Therefore, the master of Marlborough Mills had only departed the town a handful of times in the past two years in order to attend to urgent matters of trade. On these occasions, he had grudgingly dragged himself away from his two treasured ladies with such a look of sadness, one would think he was saying farewell forever. Subsequently, he would always ensure that he was gone and back in a day, guaranteeing that before midnight, he would have returned home, looked in on his sleeping babe, and crawled into bed beside his beloved wife, who he tenderly enclosed in his arms, lest he wake his angel from her slumber.

Nevertheless, this time, John had been given no alternative but to stay in Manchester for three days, as he had an eventful schedule of meetings with suppliers, investors, and shipping merchants. At first, John and Margaret had been dismayed at the thought of being separated for the first night since their wedding, the concept causing them to both hold each other that little bit tighter while they slept, unwilling to relinquish even a second together. However, a few days later, John had burst through the door of their bedroom like a madman, grinning from cheek to cheek. With astounding momentum, he had rushed up to Margaret, picked her up off the floor, and spun her around in circles, making her dreadfully dizzy. With the elation of a schoolboy on Christmas Eve, he had explained with garbling oration, that he had had the most brilliant idea: Margaret would come with him! 

At the outset, Margaret had been overjoyed, but then, her jubilation had faded, much like a hot-air balloon deflating, for she realised that it would never work. To be sure, despite all her eagerness for the plan, her maternal instincts pricked at her conscience, and she appreciated that it was simply too impractical to take the baby with them to Manchester. She knew that it was not unheard of to travel with a child, but Maria did not settle easily when she took her naps, and the prospect of removing her from the comfort and familiarity of her own cot, her own house, her own routine, it was just not fair. The little love would startle at all the hubbub of a chaotic city and would most likely bleat like a lamb from dawn to dusk, blubbing to go home. Besides, she was teething and fractious, so would probably scream at the top of her lungs, making the whole trip a farce, and her parents would return to Milton more fatigued than when they had left.

Thinking on this, Margaret had shaken her head and apologetically explained to John that it was a wonderful idea, but that it would be irrational to take their daughter to Manchester, not when she was so young. Dear John! His cheerful face had clouded, his mouth settling into a stern line, his brow creasing, and the hint of a scowl forming at his jaw. The poor man had looked devastated by disappointment, his smile plummeting into a forlorn frown. However, being an understanding husband and father, he had concurred, accepting his wife’s reasoning. He had muttered something incoherent about his proposal being absurd and that he should have foreseen the difficulties. He had slunk off, his shoulders drooping, his darling heart breaking at the idea of being separated from his girls for three whole days.

Nonetheless, a short while later, John had again bounded into the room like an excited puppy, his energy and enthusiasm heartily restored. He had kissed Margaret soundly, so passionately in fact, that she had almost swooned, and for so long, that she had almost fainted for lack of oxygen. John had then proceeded to reassure her that all was well, for it had all been arranged, meaning that there was now no impediment to their excursion. He told Margaret that his mother had volunteered to look after Maria for the duration, leaving both husband and wife free to have a romantic holiday together, one that was unrestricted by cotton, children, commitments, and for the most part, (John had thought privately), free of clothes. Well, John had admitted that there would be the odd irritable interruption of cotton and commitments to their time away, but that was immaterial, the most important thing was that _she_ would be there.

Initially, Margaret had been unsure. She had paced around the room and nibbled her lip, considering this solution carefully. John had watched in suffocating silence, his head twisting from side to side as she walked hither and thither across their bedroom. He was twitchy, for he desperately hoped, nay, he prayed, that she would consent to this arrangement. The selfless part of him wanted to give her a rest, a chance to be spoilt and pampered by her husband, for he would treat her to dinner and the theatre, he would buy her jewellery and flowers, he would rub her shoulders and brush her hair. Dang it! – he would do anything to make her happy, for his glorious girl deserved nothing less! However, he had to confess that the more selfish part of him just wanted to whisk his beautiful wife away and have her all to himself for a while, just her, and him, and a locked hotel bedroom.

Margaret had continued with her rambling around the room, her shoes shuffling along the wooden floor, her skirts rustling as she went. The cogs of her mind turned like the machine’s in the mill, as she processed this resolution that had been presented to her. She liked the idea of spending some time alone with John. She liked the idea of experiencing a change of scene. She liked the idea of giving her mother-in-law the opportunity to spend some time bonding with Maria, for when John and Margaret were home, they were so infatuated with their baby that nobody else could even get a hold of the mite. What was more, she supposed it would be interesting to become better acquainted with how John conducted trade out with his hometown, for, after all, she was his primary sponsor and shareholder. Still, there was one immeasurable benefit that she could foresee. Fanny had summoned Margaret to tea over that period, a lunch that would involve primly sitting with the other mill master’s wives discussing skirt-hoop circumferences, the latest seasonal patterns, what Paris dress designs were in vogue, and, of course, what they all intended on wearing to Fanny’s forthcoming dinner party. Now then, if Margaret went to Manchester, she would miss this titillating discussion – what a shame!

Finally, after days of John’s incessant entreating, negotiating, and the odd attempt at bribery, Margaret had finally granted him his wish and had agreed to accompany him on his commercial jaunt to Manchester. She had strolled over to his office to inform him one lunchtime and had laughed to see that for the rest of the day, the previously uptight master had appeared lighter than air, his mood as bright and breezy as a summer afternoon. At one point, she could have sworn that she saw him skipping, but no, it surely must have been a trick of the light, for John would never be so blithe. Unknown to her, what she had really witnessed was John hopping, for in his distracted rejoicing, he had bashed his foot against a cotton bale, causing him to hobble about like a cripple for the remainder of the day. Still, no amount of mockery from his workers could wipe the grin off their employer’s face, for the typically grumpy master was as pleased as punch.

All the same, when the ordained day had arrived, Margaret had chuckled to find that in spite of being the instigator of this scheme, John had been the nervous nelly, not her. During the morning, when they had made ready to leave, far from Margaret being the cooing maternal hen, clucking around the coop, it had been John who had found his fatherly feathers ruffled. The formidable Mr Thornton had flapped about the nursery, anxiously fretting at the idea of leaving his princess behind. John had stressed that it was customary for him to undertake the task of dotingly bathing Maria and putting her to bed with a story each evening, (well, normally a tutorial about trade), so what would she think if he were not there tonight? Oh Heavens! – would she feel abandoned? John had been terribly apprehensive and was on the brink of calling the whole trip off, as it was not his buyers who needed his attention, no, it was his little girl.

In the end, after losing the will to live trying to cope with their intolerable mollycoddling, it had been Hannah who had taken charge of the situation. Like an authoritarian matron, she had marched the couple to the front door and near enough shoved them out, dismissing them from their own home. Holding a gurgling baby, who merrily waved ta-ta to her Mama and Dada, Hannah had told them that Maria would quite easily survive three days without the nuisance of her pestering parents. She promised that the child would be as right as rain and that she refused to be denied the chance to make a fuss of her precious granddaughter. With that, the wearied matriarch had bid them a safe trip, given them each a peck on the cheek, gestured goodbye, and abruptly closed the door in their flabbergasted faces.

John and Margaret had skulked away, feeling rather like exiled expats. Still, as their carriage trundled towards the train station, with each clippity-clop of the horses’ hooves, they sensed the tension of responsibility tumble from their shoulders. By the time they boarded the train, they felt as free as birds. They had been fortunate to get a compartment to themselves, so, cosying up in a corner, John had draped his arm around his wife, and Margaret had shambled into the embrace of her husband, and all the cares of the outside world faded away into insignificance. As the train lumbered through the town and sped through the scenic countryside, the pair of lovers shared a few demure smiles and blushes, their bodies, hands, fingers, and faces, brushing against one another with innocence. It felt just like it had when they had travelled back to Milton together two years ago, their pulses racing with the thrill of the moment and the anticipation of all the happiness that was to come. Only now, they were married, and neither God nor man could stop them from expressing their love in every way their hearts desired.

It was now, several hours later that Margaret stood by the window of her hotel dressing room, watching the world go by. Heaving a sigh of relief, she stretched her arms high above her head and wiggled her fingers and toes. She had to admit, it was lovely to be unhampered by the concerns of the everyday, even for a few short days. She adored her lot in life; she would not change it for anything, not one bit of it. She loved her daughter, she loved her house, she loved the mill, she loved the school, she loved her new family, she loved her friends, and she loved her town, smog and all. Nevertheless, it was a treat to be away from it all for a little while, and, she thought with a blush, it was a luxury to be alone with the man she loved best of all.

As Margaret scandalously thought about all that she and her husband might get up to while they were at liberty to enjoy each other’s company, she distractedly turned to unpack her belongings. The Thorntons were due to attend a dinner in an hour or two with a prospective financier, so Margaret had already started getting ready with the help of a hotel maid. She had been assisted out of her layers and was now standing in just her silken robe, the soft material feeling refreshingly smooth against her skin. It was a short gown that rested above her knees, scantily covering her in a thin layer of material. She had included it because she knew John approved of it most avidly, which was amusing, because he never usually paid much attention to fashion. The maid had gone to prepare her a bath and John had ventured out to procure a carriage to take them to their engagement. Therefore, left to occupy herself, Margaret had opted to use the time to organise her bits and pieces.

As Margaret lifted the lid of her trunk, she started to sift through it, idly separating everything into designated piles. She found her stockings, her drawers, her corsets, her chemises, her dresses, her shoes, her handkerchiefs, her gloves, her shawls, her…wait!

Margaret scrunched up her nose in bewilderment and began to rummage around the trunk, her hands reaching to every nook and cranny, hunting for a hidden article. Nevertheless, as she continued to search, it seemed that the item was not buried beneath her other garments but was in fact altogether absent. Placing her hands on her hips, Margaret cast her mind back. No, no, she had definitely seen Dixon pack them. But then…how had they become misplaced?

Wondering if her husband had returned from his errand, Margaret called over her shoulder: ‘John, darling, have you seen…’

But as Margaret turned, she jumped, for there, leaning against the doorway of her alcove dressing room was her husband. Clutching her chest, she caught her breath, trying to calm the fluttering in her breast. Nonetheless, her heart soon hastened again, for she noticed that John looked distinctly playful, a cheeky grin curling his lips. How long had he been standing there, watching her? She was surprised not merely by his presence, but by his state of dress, or rather, undress. He was only in his trousers and shirt, which was mostly unbuttoned, revealing a taut torso, a delectable sight which she tried not to focus on. For a man who was typically attired with sombre fastidiousness, he now appeared deliciously unkempt, and she felt a familiar stirring of desire in the pit of her stomach. Slanting against the frame and blocking her escape, he raised his eyebrows, indicating that she should finish her sentence.

‘John,’ Margaret resumed, ‘have you seen my nightdresses? I cannot find them, not one. But I was sure Dixon packed them and I only have one trunk. Could they have been mislaid in your tru…,’ Margaret trailed off, her breath hitching as she spotted the glint of mischief in her husband’s eye, and she suddenly realised what he had done.

Margaret felt a shrill sensation tickle every fibre of her being. She reddened and her colour only deepened as she saw the way her husband let his gaze hungrily roam over her, his eyes feasting on every visible bit of skin, his roguish mind avidly picturing everything that was concealed. He did not even try to disguise his lascivious intentions, and a tingle titillated her nerves as she perceived something poking out from within the confines of his trousers.

John eyed her ravenously, for she was the most unreasonably mouth-watering woman imaginable, a goddess, a temptress. Oh hell! – That robe was teasingly tight, clinging to her in a way that cruelly taunted her red-blooded husband. Her body swept in and out most pleasingly, her breasts and bottom like pert peaks. Her cascading hair was long and luscious, her skin glowed radiantly, and her parted lips were soft, full, and rosy, inciting him to kiss her. Good God! – she was so arousing, so appealing, so damned appetising, he just wanted to devour every last morsel of her.

‘John?’ Margaret whispered, the words sticking in her throat, ‘what did you do with my nightdresses?’

Pushing himself off the door, John began to stalk towards her, his steps slow, steady, and shamefully seductive. With an amorous twinkle in his eyes, he got closer and closer, until he was towering over her, his scrumptiously sculpted body mere inches from her own. Margaret could feel butterflies fluttering in her belly and she sensed a dampness trickling between her thighs.

With a tone that was deep and gravelly, he confessed: ‘I took them out of your trunk.’

‘And where are they now?’ she inquired, although she could easily guess.

‘Home,’ he admitted huskily, his hot breath stirring the hairs on her neck.

Margaret trembled with anticipation. ‘Why?’

‘Why do you think?’ he asked, his hand creeping towards the folds of her robe. ‘Because I want to sleep next to my naked wife,’ he explained candidly, his fingers slipping between the material of her gown, the tips stroking at her sleek skin.

Margaret gulped. She hardly knew what to say in response. John had a greater talent for talking lewdly than she did, and even although Margaret knew he enjoyed it when she tried, she still felt terribly foolish in comparison to his brazenly racy remarks.

‘What about you?’ she checked; her voice scratchy. ‘It is hardly fair that I am expected to sleep uncovered and you are not,’ she joshed, knowing full well that they would both be spending their nights here nude…and probably the days too.

Chuckling, John leaned down to whisper in her ear, his tongue licking her lobe. ‘Now then, do you really think I brought any nightclothes either?’

With that, as quickly as the snap of a finger and thumb, John lifted Margaret into the air and crushed his mouth against hers. Moaning, she wrapped her legs around him and let out a breathy sigh as she felt his hardness grind against her unadorned lower regions. She pushed against it impatiently, indecently requesting to have his massive shaft stuffed inside her. Staggering backwards, John carried Margaret to the bedroom, his hands groping audaciously at her bottom and breasts. Stumbling towards the bed, John groaned, for the randy master fully intended to pleasure her so mercilessly that all of Manchester would know the Thorntons had come to town. Imagining all the riding and rutting they would be doing over the next seventy-two hours, John grunted and pulled her firmer against him, his erection digging into her so instinctively, that it nearly slipped in impulsively. Doing a quick calculation, he deduced that he could have her at least ten times before they went home, perhaps fifteen if they discreetly did it while they were out and about in the city.

‘Have you seen the size of the bed?’ he asked, his face pressed against her neck, his mouth peppering kisses along the length of that glorious slope. ‘It’s the biggest damned bed we’ve ever slept in,’ he observed gruffly, his hands sneaking under the hem of her robe and along the outside of her velvety leg.

‘I know,’ Margaret replied, her fingers digging into his hair and tugging at the strands, revelling in his grumbles that were born of half pain, half pleasure. 

‘Mind you,’ he went on, his teeth nipping at her ear, ‘I don’t know how much sleeping we’ll be doing.’

‘Oh?’! Margaret said, feigning innocence. ‘Did you have another activity in mind, _Sir_ ,’ she queried, clinching his bottom lip between her teeth and biting hard.

John growled and threw her on top of the mattress, before looking at her like a starving man surveying a banquet, causing her toes to curl with expectation. He quickly removed his trousers and with his penis pointing at her purposefully, he clambered on top of his wife, his body flattening her own, trapping her in place like a prisoner, one that was about to be punished for being so damned enticing.

‘Yes!’ he replied thickly, ‘Sex!’

Margaret gasped as he brushed his finger along the apex of her thigh.

‘Forget all our meetings! I want to spend every hour of the next three days fucking you so hard that you lose your fucking voice!’ he rumbled, thrusting his pelvis against her own.

Margaret whimpered under the intensity of her husband’s fiery passion and began unbuttoning his shirt hurriedly.

‘This bed,’ he added, his tongue half-way down her throat, ‘we can spread your legs as far as they will go,’ he snarled like a ravenous wolf. ‘I want to shove my cock as deep as it can go. I want my sack in you, Meg!’ 

‘Be my guest,’ Margaret muttered, ‘Do your worst!’ she invited, before sinking her teeth into his neck and sighing as he snarled with gratification.

John and Margaret continued like this for some time, rolling around in a tangled mass of limbs and drinking in the delights of each other. Tearing off their clothes and ripping his shirt, they lunged forwards, colliding in a carnal embrace, pawing frantically at exposed flesh. Their hands and mouths roamed free, exploring every rise and fall of the exotic and erotic paradise of their partner’s fascinating body. They had lain together more times than it was humanly possible to count, but still, they were eternally charmed as well as humbled by the experience of knowing each other in such an exquisitely intimate way.

Then, a few minutes later, John accidently knelt on Margaret’s pinkie and she yelped, wincing at the crushing weight of his muscular frame squashing down on such a minor part of her. Without a second’s hesitation, John sprung back like a coil and scrambled away, his face ashen with worry.

‘Margaret?!’ he cried. ‘Have I hurt you?’ he asked, his eyes scanning her frantically for any sign of injury. Shaking his head and letting out a shuddering sigh of frustration, he cursed himself for being so thoughtless, for being so unforgivably insatiable when his darling wife was in such a delicate condition. Before Margaret could reply, he had fetched her robe and helped her back into it, before setting about attentively swaddling her in blankets, handling her as if she were a piece of fragile china. He put his shredded shirt back on and wore it almost like a cloak of disgrace. Finally, after his cherished wife was cocooned in a protective shell, John carefully settled himself by her side, tucking Margaret safely in the warm embrace of his secure arms, holding her close and burrowing his nose in her hair with a sniff of repentance.

‘Sweetheart,’ he rasped, a guilty lilt to his tone. ‘My love, I am _so_ sorry,’ he grumbled. ‘What a beast I am!’

Margaret blinked. ‘John, what on earth are you talking about?’

‘The baby,’ he whispered, tenderly caressing her belly, his touch so soft that Margaret could feel the sacred love pouring out from his fingertips. ‘I should not have been so rough with you, my darling. I should have been more considerate of your condition and the welfare of our babe,’ he acknowledged, his previously lustful expression now troubled by an abashed sulk. ‘It is not how a gentleman ought to behave when his wife is with child, not when she is bearing the most precious gift in all the world,’ he said, lowering his head and lightly kissing her stomach.

‘I am sorry, I just…I wanted…you looked so…I was an animal, forgive me,’ he brooded, his head ducking behind hers in shame.

Margaret smiled as she melted into her husband’s tender cuddle, his arms were her nest, her refuge, her home. She swivelled round so that she could curl up against his chest, his muscles forming a firm but comfortable pillow. Margaret placed a soothing palm on his breast, beaming as she saw her rings sparkling in the light, a reminder that she was married to the most wonderful man. She patted him sensitively, her touch a source of solace, a calming reassurance to steady the beat of his loving heart, one that overflowed with a generosity that never ceased to amaze her.

It was true, she was with child once more. She was not very far along, probably only around three months, but just like with her first confinement, she had instinctively known almost straight away, her maternal sixth sense detecting the new life growing within. During both terms, she had been content to wait a while prior to asking the doctor to call, as she thought it prudent to delay and see if her course returned and whether her tummy swelled before getting overly and prematurely excited.

Nevertheless, for both pregnancies, John had been restless with an exhausting combination of animation and apprehension, meaning that he had practically hauled the poor doctor, a specialist, to the house, hovering over him like a menace while he examined a mortified Margaret. The physician had tried to explain to John that it was not standard practice for fathers to take such an active interest in the processes of childbearing, childbirth, and childrearing.

Certainly, for when Maria had been born, John had made a right nuisance of himself loitering outside the birthing room, popping his head in every few minutes to check how things were, soliciting what he could do to help, and pulling horrified expressions at the indecorous sights and sounds before him.

However, despite the doctor’s frustration, John had been as stubborn as a mule and refused to budge. According to him, his place was by his wife’s side and nothing and no one would dissuade him from his post. The obstinate master had folded his arms, resolutely stood rooted to the spot, and asked an array of maddening questions, leaving the doctor quite worn out. This time round, he had essentially incarcerated the physician until he had assessed Margaret thoroughly enough to be able to answer John’s long list of exacting enquiries. Needless to say, when the medic finally escaped the mill house, he was in need of a tonic himself. Reaching the sanctuary of his home, the man had promptly prescribed himself the best medicine in his cabinet, a stiff tipple of brandy.

It was due to John’s incessant worrying that his wife now deemed it best to broach the subject of his latest spasm of panic sympathetically. As Margaret lay in John’s ardent hold, she closed her eyes dreamily. She cherished the feeling of their baby growing in her tummy; it made her feel whole, as if a part of her had been missing before. Even although it was terribly early and there was barely a bump to be seen, she felt sure that she could distinguish every minuscule change in the tiny Thornton that was thriving in her womb. She did not know it then, but she was nurturing not one baby, but two, twin boys. Margaret smiled as she felt John nestle himself against her and sighed with the blissful feeling of his hand protectively cradling her abdomen, for she felt more treasured than ever when he was close to her like this, disclosing his tender devotion for her and their little ones.

‘John,’ she commenced cautiously, leaning her head back so that it rested under his chin. She giggled as she felt him scratch the whiskers of his facial hair across her cheek, much like an affectionate tomcat nuzzling its mistress. ‘John, my love, you have never once been coarse with me,’ she reassured him kindly.

‘I have!’ he protested. ‘I am often…rough in our…intimacy. Both my conduct and language are far from gentlemanly.’

‘No, it is not true,’ she insisted. ‘Yes, perhaps some of our couplings have been…,’ she searched for the right word, finally landing on, ‘ _vigorous_.’

‘Aye, you can say that again,’ John whispered darkly into her ear as he smirked, his hand tightening ever so slightly on her hip, drawing her backside that ever bit further towards him, his groin chafing against her.

‘Yes, well, we have certainly been _energetic_ on many occasions. And yes, your language is more uncouth than I was once used to, but you know I do not mind it, I like it even,’ she blushed. ‘But John, darling…,’ she went on, tilting her gaze so that she looked into his eyes, his orbs filled with contrition. ‘You have never once been forceful with me. You are the gentlest of husbands and of lovers,’ she reassured. ‘Come now, _please_ , do not be like this. I did not yelp because you hurt me in that way, I did it because you knelt on my finger,’ she explained, raising the offended digit, pretending to pout in pain.

Margaret’s heart swelled as John glanced attentively towards her hand, his look one of genuine alarm, his handsome face shadowed by a rueful frown. Then, tenderly, he lifted her hand and with a featherlight touch, he gradually kissed each finger in turn, his moist lips anointing her with his adoration. Margaret could have burst with her love for him, for it was true, despite his strength and stature, he was the kindliest of men. The very idea of him hurting her was as ludicrous as a man on the moon. 

‘John, I am not made of glass, you dear, silly boy,’ she teased warmly. ‘I am no dainty damsel, I thought you knew that about me, it was one of the reasons you fell in love with me.’

‘It was! It is!’ he asserted adamantly. ‘But Meg, I _need_ to look after you, the bab ─’

But Margaret held up a stifling finger and halted his dispute by placing it against his lips.

‘John, I promise that I shall not shatter at my husband’s passionate attentions. I am made of sterner stuff, I assure you. We have been through all of this before and all was well.’

Caressing his stubbled jaw, Margaret gazed into his penetrating eyes, ones that she was finding herself quickly and willingly becoming lost in. They were brimming with love, and, if she looked carefully, a flicker of smouldering lust.

‘Please, John, touch me,’ she begged, her tone beseeching, her voice seductive. ‘I want you to touch me… _master_.’

That did the trick!


	2. THE VANISHING NIGHTDRESSES: PART 2 OF 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this chapter contains mature-explicit smut.

_THE VANISHING NIGHTDRESSES_

_PART 2 OF 2_

Master!

John felt a sensual tremor stir throughout every strand of his body. Hearing his wife refer to him by that title always sent a shiver up his spine and unleashed something ferocious and feral within. He was used to being revered in his daily life by his workers, fellow masters, and the inhabitants of his town. He had a commanding character, one that people conclusively respected. But his Margaret, well, she had always defied his highhanded ways, rebelling against his domineering nature, resisting his authority. God! – how he admired her for it! He could never be her master, he understood that as surely as he knew the sky was blue or the grass was green, for a lioness like her could never be tamed, nor should she be. So, when Margaret willingly called him by that name, it drove John mad, and he wanted her like no man had ever wanted a woman. John may have been the overbearing master to the outside world, but in the privacy of their bedroom, there was no denying who was in charge.

He gazed into her eyes, his own a flitting exchange between yearning and fear, for he desired her so desperately, but he would rather die than hurt her.

Margaret sat up straight, her chest pushing outwards, and with seductive leisureliness, she peeled off her robe and tossed it away. Fixing her husband with a confident stare, she allowed him to savour her nakedness. John let his eyes unapologetically drop onto her body so that he could look at her. Once, perhaps, he would have felt ashamed to survey her so openly, so longingly, but now, he was free to do so without embarrassment or guilt. It was not because she was his wife and he felt he was due a husband’s right to access her body without restriction. Goodness, no! He was no such patriarchal pig! No, it was because she gladly and graciously welcomed his gaze, for it was by her grace, her bidding only, that he ever so much as tried to kiss her chastely on the cheek.

Taking his hand, Margaret bent his fingers and cupped them over her breast. John’s eyes closed and he inhaled sharply, his pulse rising and then racing at the sensation of his wife’s pert nipple under his thumb, which he began to massage with delicious unhurriedness. John adored her breasts, for they were moulded to utter perfection. He had not had the opportunity to play with them as often as he would have wished in the past year, due to someone far smaller and sweeter than him needing to suckle on them. John secretly admitted that he loved watching his wife feed their baby, not in an amorous way, of course, but because he found a strange, manly thrill in seeing her breasts being employed for their proper purpose.

He tried to sneak home as often as possible from the mill in order to be part of this routine, for the three of them had their own little ritual, one which he treasured. John would sit on the bed or in an armchair in the nursery, and Margaret would settle between his legs and shuffle back, so that she was propped up against him. There, she would take Maria in her arms and feed her, while both parents watched over their babe, smiling contently, talking to her and revelling in the child’s grins and giggles as she studied them with wide eyes full of wonder. There was something breathtakingly spiritual about seeing Margaret nourish his baby, their baby, the embodiment of their love nursing on her flawless teat.

Nevertheless, despite his worship of this divine woman, John was just a man, a man who was consumed by a desire to pluck this angel straight out of Heaven and corrupt her with his covetousness for her whole being and body, tits and all. Now that Maria had stopped getting her sustenance from her mother, John was free to enjoy that part of Margaret whenever she permitted, and it was an indulgence the red-blooded male in him craved constantly.

John felt himself stiffen as Margaret let out a breathy little moan when he pinched her beaded nipple. He started to shift in the bed, his other hand stealing up her leg, creeping higher until it reached that sacred spot between her thighs, his favourite place in the whole damned world.

Margaret knew what was coming, but still, no matter how many times he had done this, she could still not prepare herself for the sharp stab of plea─ ‘OH!’ she cried, her head falling back against the pillows as a familiar pang of pleasure darted through her, his fingers grazing across the tip of her sex.

Returning her gaze to him, she felt her heart slam against her ribs at the look on his face. She knew it well. At one time, it would have been unfamiliar to an unworldly maiden like her, but now, well, she was a thoroughly married woman, and that look thrilled her through and through. It was a smouldering fire of lust, want, need, fervour, intensity, and a sign that her husband was about to ─

Leaping up, John started to fumble with his sleeves and swiftly shredded his already ruined shirt, flinging it so far that it got entangled in the chandelier, which thankfully, was not lit. They both remained still for a moment, Margaret sitting up and John kneeling before her, their eyes greedily combing over each other’s stark bareness.

Leaning forward, John carefully separated her legs and established himself between them, his breath rough and ragged. ‘You will tell me, won’t you? You _will_ tell me, Meg, if I hurt you, even a bit?’ he ensured, his voice pleading.

Lifting a hand to stroke his face, Margaret let her knuckles trace the outline of his temple. ‘I promise,’ she vowed. ‘Now then, husband, make love to your wife,’ she directed coyly, before lying down and letting her arms fall behind her head, her body laid exposed, an invitation for him to have his way with her.

With a frisky grin, John let his hand sink between her legs and with a teasing pace, his fingers crept closer and closer to his target. Margaret waited, holding her breath, then, suddenly, she sensed that acute gratification gush through her once more. With one finger, he inserted it into the cavern of her passage, and she felt herself burn with a heat that blazed deep in her core. Gradually, he pulled his finger out and then thrust it back in, his speed dawdling and deliberate. Then, after a while, he added another finger, then another, then another, until he had four fingers crammed inside her. Margaret lapsed further back into the cushions and gasped, her legs spreading instinctively, indecently wide, welcoming her husband’s attention with shameless abandon.

John watched her vigilantly, hypnotised by the way she writhed under his ministrations. He could still not get over it, even after almost two years of marriage. She was unquestionably an enchantress, for she was so beautiful, so damned bewitching. With an animalistic grunt of satisfaction, John let his greedy eyes scour over her fine figure. He felt himself harden at the sight of her enormous tits, her plump nipples, her smooth skin, her rounded hips, and that patch of heaven that he was now petting. No, after all this time, he could still not believe that he was allowed to see her like this, that he could have her, that he could claim her as his wife. It was a privilege that he alone was permitted to enjoy, and a tiny part of him felt sorry for all the unlucky bastards who would be denied this honour. Still, it really was a very tiny part of him, for the rest of him was downright arrogant in the superior knowledge that she was his and his alone. Pride was sinful, he knew, but in this case, he felt sure God would understand, for after all, it was he who created the deity that was Margaret Hale, now Thornton. It was a miracle, a mistake surely, for this goddess must have been intended for someone more worthy than he.

Compelling his attention back to the present and the beguiling woman that now lay squirming beneath him, he decided that it was time to increase the intensity of her pleasure. Adorning a wicked grin, he raised his thumb and pressed it hard against her sex.

‘Oh God!’ Margaret screeched, her hands flying to her face and her back arching.

John persisted like this for quite some time, for he was in no hurry, his digit rubbing unyielding circles over her cliterous, his pressure precise and calculated. Margaret continued to thrash around, John’s cock throbbing impatiently as he listened to her whimper and he saw her eyes roll back in appreciation. Gazing at her, John winked mischievously and then lowered his head, so that it rested between her legs. Margaret knew what was coming and flattened her feet against the mattress, grounding herself, getting ready so that she could hold firm when he began. Taking a deep breath, she threaded her fingers through his hair and steered him to the spot, prepared for him to feast on her. Licking his lips, John extended his tongue, but instead of using it, he let it hang in the air.

‘John?’ Margaret questioned, her eyes flickering open.

‘Tell me what you want,’ he stipulated, his tone devastatingly officious.

She felt a prickly flush tickle her nerves and she blushed. ‘I want you.’

‘And…what do you want me to do?’ he taunted; the tip of his tongue painfully close to its mark.

Margaret wrenched at his hair and he groaned. ‘You know what I want!’

‘Say it!’ he ordered, his voice growing brasher. ‘Tell me what you want, you naughty minx!’

But Margret did not respond, instead, she grabbed the back of his neck and hauled his head into her crotch with urgency, the force of her heave a clear answer in itself.

John roared like a lion with lust and let his tongue swipe across Margaret’s nib. He felt his body tense as she let out a sharp breath and flinched at the excitement of his contact. He did it again, and again, and again, until, finally, he opened his lips and placed a moist kiss against her, his mouth absorbing that lusciously hot haven.

‘Oh John!’ Margaret squealed, her fingers grappling at his shoulders, her nails scratching his sides.

John went on, his fingers still thrusting inside her, his mouth gluttonously working that spicy oasis, lapping at the wetness he found there.

‘John!’ she cried, her heels slamming down against the bed.

‘Say it!’ he demanded gruffly. ‘Say my name!’

‘No!’ she retorted, challenging him with daring obstinacy, for nobody flouted the master of Marlborough Mills.

‘Oh hell!’ he cussed. ‘I love it when you disobey me!’ he snarled. ‘It makes me want you so bloody badly!’

However, he soon got his wish, for when he next lapped at her, she involuntarily called his name, her volume and eagerness both an enthusiastic appraisal of his efforts. John moaned, for his name exclaimed from her lips was like music to his ears, especially when it was laced with the opium of unadulterated hedonism.

‘John!’ she yelled.

‘Again!’ he commanded.

‘John!!’ Margaret recited more loudly, for she was quickly losing control of her senses.

Propelling his fingers in deeper and harder, he crooked the tips, chuckling as she nearly jumped off the bed.

‘I didn’t hear you, louder!’ he shouted, his tongue slurping at the collection of nerves before him, his free hand fondling her backside.

‘John!!!’ she whined, that familiar ball of bliss building in the pit of her stomach. ‘Yes! Yes!!’

‘Louder!!’ he growled.

‘John!!!’ she repeated, her voice a whimper, the pleasure ballooning throughout her straining body.

‘LOUDER!’ he bellowed, before thrusting three of his fingers as far into her as he could manage, but curving the fourth one just inside her passage, so that it brushed that little bump behind the opening.

That did it.

Margaret hastily snatched a pillow and shoved it over her face, before letting out the most ear-splitting scream that room number 271 of the Royal Hotel, Manchester, had ever heard.

‘JOHN!!!’ she cried; her yell muffled by the cushion.

Quivering, she let the joyful feeling wash over her. It was prolonged, it was raucous, it was marvellous!

John laughed, stopping what he was doing and gazing affectionately at his wonderful wife while she gradually regained her poise. She was incredible. He gently removed his fingers, before licking each one clean. God! – he loved the tangy taste of her. He knew that not all men would, that they would find the idea of eating the juices of their wives’ pussy to be disgusting, but for John, he relished it. He could never get enough of this glorious woman that he was lucky enough to be allowed to not only bask in the love of, but to also bed with all the raw passion that he possessed for her.

After giving his wife a minute to compose herself, just a minute mind, John braced himself and positioned himself so that he was prepared to penetrate her.

‘Ready for round two?’ he asked, his chin damp with her come.

‘Oh God!’ Margaret gasped, her chest still heaving, John’s eyes captivated by the rise and fall of those luscious mountains. ‘You are a very bad man; do you know that?’

John chortled.

‘Oh, I am, am I?’ he mocked, his tone intoxicatingly immodest. ‘Does that mean that your first instincts of me were correct, Miss Hale? You thought I was a very bad man back then,’ he joked, his nose skimming her collarbone and tracking a path along her arm.

‘I did indeed,’ Margaret agreed with a giggle. ‘I thought you were an absolute ogre.’ Then, placing both of her legs on top of his shoulders, she added: ‘Thank goodness I was right,’ a lustful look clouding her eyes.

‘Does that mean you like me this way?’ he verified, his nose circling one of her nipples. ‘Tell me wife, do you want me to be a good boy or a bad boy?’ he checked, as he parted his lips and gathered her teat into his mouth before sucking on it, his mind made giddy by the soft and supple skin he caressed.

John thought yet again about how much he admired Margaret’s breasts. It had mortified him, for he had noticed her pleasing shape the moment they had first been introduced. He had felt uncomfortable and disordered, for he was being berated as a brute, but still, his accuser was the most attractive woman he had ever met. Over the prevailing months, John had tried not to glance at her décolletage, but after that fateful dinner party and that cruelly appealing gown, she had made it damned hard for him not to let his imagination run wild.

Now that they were married, he found that his mind's eye had not done justice to the impressiveness of those pale peaks. What was more, when Margaret was pregnant, they seemed to swell to an even greater size, emboldening them to tease him day and night. They were also more sensitive, meaning that every slight touch caused her to flutter. He loved to have her on top of him, for he could submerge his face between them, and he adored the way she bowed forward and dangled them temptingly over his mouth. He would certainly be requesting that she rode him while they were here, as the idea of seeing those tits bouncing as she cantered on his cock, it was too satisfying to describe.

John suddenly let out a guttural groan as Margaret seized his penis and clutched it in a tight viper-like grip. Lifting her head so that it was mere inches from his own, she lacquered his lips, her tongue sliding across his with agonizing slowness. She gave him a hard tug, her fist gradually squeezing around him, causing him to whimper like a puppy.

Once upon a time, Margaret had found the sight and sensation of his manhood overwhelming in every sense. It was so unlike anything she had ever known. It could be rather intimidating. It had frightened and delighted her all at once, the thought that this rigid limb was such an important part of the man she loved, but it was something she had not been introduced to until their wedding night. It thrilled her to think that with this mysterious member, John would enter her, giving her the blissful joy of their marriage bed, but also, more symbolically still, it would impregnate her, gifting the couple with their own precious family.

However, she now knew it better than any part of her own body, she could outline every gradient of that rough-and-ready length with her eyes closed. It was extensive in its length, pleasingly thick, and curiously knobbly, its veins turning a brilliant blue when he pulsated. It was smooth to the touch, the skin tightening under her touch. She knew it, and it knew her, it submitted to her, for she could bend it to her will. It was funny, because when they lay together like this, she could take her hand away and move her finger around, and, as if by magic, it instinctively followed her movements, aching for her, begging for the contact of its mistress. John loved it when she touched him. She found the act fascinating, because much to her delight, the merest skim of her fingers against his stiffness made him fall to pieces. The strong, solid, severe master, a man who was renowned for his power, she could reduce him to a whining wretch with the most innocent of strokes.

He never entreated her to hold him or swallow him, because he felt it was too much for a husband to ask of his wife, but she did it readily and often. She recalled the time he had teased her relentlessly at a party and had joked about taking her the minute they got into the house. Pouting mischievously, she had done one better and during the carriage ride home, Margaret had lowered the blinds, unfastened his trousers, and sucked on him there and then until he erupted in her mouth. John had been speechless, his sighs of pleasure the only sound he made. He kept banging his fist on the side of the carriage, attempting to stifle his moans, but the coachman had thought they were wanting to stop, and Margaret had to keep calling to carry on. Yes, she loved the taste of him, she loved the feel of him sliding down her throat, she loved the hum of his husky groans, and she loved the tang of his salty spend.

Returning to the conversation, Margaret dug her nails into his biceps and grinned as he let out a fierce howl. ‘I want you, John Thornton,’ she said flirtatiously, her eyes never once leaving his, ‘to be a very, very, very, _VERY_ bad boy!’ Margaret whispered.

With that, John pushed her down and rammed himself in her, as deep, as fast, and as hard as he could.

‘OH!’ they both cried, their heads falling back. The feeling of euphoria that rushed through them from tip to toe was heavenly. Margaret was so tight and wet, for her muscles were always constricted when she climaxed, meaning that her channel was a snug glove for John to sink his well-endowed appendage into.

They paused for a moment on the brink of pure pleasure, mustering their strength and stamina.

‘John,’ Margaret said quietly.

‘Yes, love?’

‘I forgot, the maid is coming to bath me,’ she noted, her voice tinted with worry, for she could not bear to be found in such a compromising position, nor, she admitted, could she endure to have this idyllic moment interrupted by something as dull as a bath.

But John did not bother and he merely grinned. ‘Well then, darling, we had better get on with it,’ he quipped. Then, dropping his mouth to her ear, he murmured: ‘Full steam ahead,’ before plunging into her with one powerful and purposeful lunge.

‘OH!!’ Margaret cried.

John raised himself onto his forearms and securing her legs on his shoulders, he began to push in and pull out, his rhythm rapid and unrelenting.

‘Oh fuck, yes!’ John growled, his eyes bulging as he crashed into his wife, every inch of his cock filling her.

‘John,’ Margaret croaked, for she could hardly catch her breath. ‘John, I’m going to come.’

‘Then come!’ he invited eagerly. ‘Come all over me!’

At that point, there was a knock on the locked door and a jarring voice called out: ‘Mrs Thornton? Mrs Thornton, your bath is ready.’

‘Oh, John?’ Margaret whined, unsure of what to do.

‘Let her wait!’ he snarled, his velocity accelerating still.

‘But John,’ Margaret gasped, ‘She will surely hear us.’

‘Let her!’ he exclaimed, his brow dripping with perspiration, his muscles glistening with sweat, making them appear brawnier and burlier than ever. ‘Let her hear us! I want all of Manchester to hear us!’

Margaret lifted one leg higher into the air and placed the other in the middle of his back, her heel pushing against him, anchoring him deeper into her. They both groaned and Margaret began to feel the pleasure in her expand, the tension mounting in her coccyx, before shooting through her veins, causing her toes to curl.

‘John, I’m going to come,’ she warned.

‘Mrs Thornton?’ sounded the voice again.

‘Just a minute,’ she replied, her voice trembling, making John laugh heartily. ‘I ─ I’ll be there ─oh !─I’ll be there in a mo─mo─moment!’

John grunted as he felt his body tense, that sharp stab of pleasure building in the base of his cock, gradually sneaking to the tip.

‘I’m close,’ he announced hoarsely, as he allowed his thrusts to become wildly spirited, as if he were a stallion charging towards the finish line.

‘Oh, God! John! John!! Yes!!’ Margaret shrieked; her screams smothered by the hand that was over her mouth.

But he quickly batted her hand away with his chin. ‘No! I want to hear you! God Margaret! – let me hear you!’ he implored. ‘I want to hear my wife moan!’ he rumbled; his eyes screwing shut as he felt a pressure intensify all the way through his pounding penis. ‘Oh fuck! I love you! I love you!! Mar─Margaret, I love you!!!’ he hollered.

Again, there was a knock at the door, which was luckily situated far away at the other end of the suite, meaning that the innocent maid was not being subjected to the noise of the Thornton’s fervent tumble amongst the crisp linen bedsheets.

‘I’m coming,’ Margaret screeched once more. ‘Just ─ oh my! ─ I’ll just be a second!’

‘Come for me, Meg!’ John hissed in her ear. ‘Come for your husband! Drench me, my darling!’

One thrust. Two thrust. Three thrust. Four.

‘Mrs Tho ─’

Then, it happened. John lunged into her, and all at once, Margaret felt an explosion of pleasure sear through her, discharging to every corner of her quaking body.

‘I’M COMING!’ she screamed at the top of her lungs, her cries resounding around the room.

Margaret felt her pelvic muscles tense, and in that instant, John let out a guttural roar as he too came apart in her. She could feel him spurting his seed inside her, the warm, peppery fluid flooding her. John collapsed and he sighed, panting against her chest. There they lay together for several heartbeats, their bodies trembling with the potency of their climax.

At last, John lifted his head and placed a featherlight kiss on Margaret’s lips, this being his final deed in this act of worship that they had just concluded.

‘God, woman!’ he muttered. ‘I love you so damned much!’ he rasped.

‘Margaret ran her fingers through his hair and kissed his forehead. ‘I love you too,’ she smiled. ‘Far from being a bad boy, you are a very good, good, good man, John Thornton!’

As they heard yet another impatient knock at the door, John clambered off his wife so that she could leave to take her bath, for she would certainly need it now. As she stumbled to her feet, her legs wobbly, her thighs covered in an unseemly mess, John chuckled.

‘What is it?’ she asked, reaching for her robe.

Flopping back against the bedsheets, John replied with a playful smirk: ‘I was just thinking, when we get back to Milton, remind me to get rid of all your clothes.’


End file.
